The Emperor's Delirium
by MihoAnsatsu
Summary: Falling victim to a new strain of illness, a sick Dregn is under the care of Dreadlash and Sekutor. It's not how they want to spend their day off from arena training.


Just like in any other bustling, busy city, Clint City fell victim to new strains of bacteria and virus on a regular basis. Most were often destroyed before they could do too much damage thanks to the rapid reaction and work of the Rescue, but if the strain started in a not-so-prepared area of Clint City then this was not always the case.

This time around, a new strain of disease had shown itself in the Vortex base, its first and only victim being the Emperor Dregn himself. Not knowing what sort of damage primitive and ancient germs could possibly do to the futurekind, the clan had isolated their leader by locking him in the throne room, and now the soldiers were taking it in turns to look after the 'fallen' Dregn.

That day it was the turn of Sekutor and Dreadlash, who weren't exactly too pleased at how they were spending their free day away from Arena training. They didn't want to have to keep catching sight of their sickly leader, who was shivering slightly in his feverish sweat; the two younger males wondering where he got the energy to shiver in the first place, as his whole being looked pale and tired.

"As much as I hate his oppression, it's sad to see him like..._this_," Sekutor said, sounding a little uncomfortable. "He's like some sort of zombie, look."

Beginning to wave his finger back and forth like a single-digit metronome, Sekutor couldn't help sighing when all the Emperor could do in response was follow the movement with his head, as if he was a curious canine listening to its master's commands.

"How come it's only affected him?"

"Stubbornness," he said, rolling his eyes at the obviousness of what he was about to say next. "Dregn's always been so sure that he was too superior for this timeline but he forgot that his body wasn't prepared against ancient germs. The only reason it's gotten him is because we've isolated him before it could spread to any of us."

"What's _she_ doing here?" Dregn suddenly asked, stumbling his words a little as he pointed forward towards what looked like empty space.

"_She_, your highness?" Dreadlash then asked, sounding utterly confused; his hours endlessly spent training for the Arena of Death meant that he was never up to date with trivial matters involving the city.

"Karee no po praxa iltum na Sahk!"

"Shakaarti said he'd been having hallucinations," Sekutor began, shaking his head at the situation. "The bacteria causes some sort of delirium and makes you see things. And he's got his hatred of the Sakrohm on the brain again."

"Na Sahk, na Sahk. Mehys nar alto."

"Your highness, you're not speaking the ancient English anymore," Dreadlash noted, sounding a little uncomfortable at the Emperor's change of tongue.

"Neya na syek. Teirum mii iltum lutre."

Alongside the fact he was strictly speaking Vortesian (dubbed by Clint City as 'futurespeak'), Dregn's tone had now become as slow and sluggish as he looked, with his eyes slowly closing as he tried his best not to fall asleep; the mighty Emperor was not about to submit to a germ of all things, especially not a primitive one.

Having spent the last few years of his life training in every art of Vortesian combat to ensure his place as captain and officer, Dreadlash had learnt to communicate less vocally with arena-known signals; not having the best grip of his own timeline's language in the first place, he couldn't help shooting a look to Sekutor that make it clear he needed translation of his Highness' deluded groaning.

"He basically gave the Imperial Vortesian command to show no mercy to the oncoming Sakrohm, then he told them to step no further and then said their compliance was such a good decision that he might even let them go."

"He must really be ill if he even considered showing mercy," Dreadlash said, looking rather dumbfounded at it all. "I guess he's really going...delusional, is that the present-dayers call it?"

His thoughtful look soon turned to one of confused intrigue when he noticed the cheeky, little smirk on Sekutor's face.

"What?"

"Heh, if His Highness wasn't out of it, he'd almost kill you for doing the thing."

The 'thing' was what the Vortex called the circular hand gesture that the present-day did when they were trying to think of the right word; a habit that had found itself infecting the future soldiers, Dregn held more hatred for the parasites that their ways were beginning to rub off on his men. The soldiers themselves didn't mind, as they found that the gesture actually helped them, and anything that helped them was more than welcome.

Turning their attention to their ruler once more, they couldn't help but feel their relaxed states slowly fade as they noticed his 'coming to'; Dregn's sickly expression was soon turning to a face full of fury, as he couldn't believe the cheek of the two 'intruders' in what was supposed to be his own piece of personal fortitude.

"What are you two doing in my throne room?!" He suddenly snapped, his anger then interrupted by a coughing fit. "I should have you both executed for conspiracy and treason!"

"Your highness, you're still very ill," Sekutor explained, gently and daringly pushing the Emperor back down into his sitting position on his throne. "You were having such a bad spell just now that you were barking Vortesian commands at imaginary Sakrohm."

"So the heretics didn't invade my empire then?" He asked, sniffling a little and gingerly blowing his nose on the primitive tissue. "The primitive germs must be making my mind play tricks on me like the dirty, tricky parasites that they are."

If there was one thing that the Vortex army lived by, it was that brute force was the only suitable way to get what you wanted. Not fancy words and mind games that the likes of Izsobahd used to get his own way (and Dregn still didn't trust him).

"Shouldn't you two be training for the next Arena onslaughts?" Dregn then asked, his attention drifting between Dreadlash and Sekutor. "I can't have my deadliest warriors losing in the early melees and making me look weak."

"It's our day off," Sekutor replied, simply blinking.

"And we had to spend it looking after you," Dreadlash added, with one eyebrow raised; the tone of his voice making it clear that he wasn't pleased with the situation whatsoever, his annoyance soon turned to anxiety when he found himself the target of the Emperor's dark stare.

"You should be grateful," he replied, his voice forcibly calm as if he thought 'exploding' at his officer wasn't worth it. "You're doing your Emperor a great service by protecting his person. There's no higher honour in the Vortesian code. And if that was a hallucination on my part...you're doing an adequate job. Continue."

Sekutor and Dreadlash glance at each other in a somewhat amused yet apprehensive way, wondering just which version of the Emperor they preferred; their support for the sickly, delusional ruler confirmed when during those first few minutes of his initial personality returning, he'd thrown a cup at Dreadlash's head in fury of being served the primitive chicken soup.

"I'm not eating this! If the parasite's little saying of one being what they eat is true, then I am no cowardly chicken! But...it also means that that savage from the casino is the most human of all...what a ghastly bunch of parasites. Bring me some Ghoulash and bring it to me _NOW_!"

Doing as they were told, the two soldiers were doing their best to keep calm, humbled expressions on their faces. But in all honesty, the whole experience was making them hope that the Emperor was never sick again.


End file.
